


Repeat

by MegaFrost4



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective John, Psychological Trauma, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Tragedy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaFrost4/pseuds/MegaFrost4
Summary: John and Sherlock's lives are turned upside down after a horrifying event that ends up bringing the two closer together.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

The flat at 221B Baker Street had been awfully quiet all day. John was a tad concerned, although part of him did enjoy it. Sherlock had gone "out" and would not be too long. In Sherlock terms, that basically meant 13.6 hours until it was useful to check in on him. John had spent the day sipping tea and just relaxing. There was not a case to be solved, so he expected his flatmate to want to get out and just do something. Boredom is _never_ good. John casually glanced at the bullet holes in the wall and rolled his eyes.

It was past midnight, and John had not heard a word since this morning. Not even a text bragging that he was superior to the boring minds of humans. He picked up his phone.

12:07 _Are you finished rubbing it into Anderson's face how much smarter you are?_

John smirked. He loved messing with Sherlock. It had only been about a year living with the genius, but John had enjoyed the companionship. They had been through hell and back with cases, both the murderous ones and cases that involved this new concept to Sherlock called housekeeping. Mrs. Hudson still refuses to be called their housekeeper, but every once and a while, she leaves assortments of biscuits and cakes for her boys. God bless that woman.

_Whenever Sherlock would leave John to go do God knows what, he would come back with some bruise or laceration, infuriating the doctor._

_"You have got to be more careful! I thought we talked about taking precations! You're not invincible!"_

_"Oh, shut up." Every now and then, John would catch Sherlock wince, but the ego would not allow him to complain. He was Sherlock Holmes. He can handle anything!_

_It got somewhat disturbing when the consulting detective was not as light on his feet as normal. He laid around more than usual, actually going to bed by 3:00 A.M. John could not help but wonder what was wrong. The movements were more calculated and cautious...as if Sherlock was made of porcelain._

_Granted, he was getting much more rest, which the man needed to do for a while. But something was off._

_"Sherlock..." John had asked one day at random._

_"Hmm?" Squinted eyes were observing something under the microscope._

_"Are you all right?" Not getting any initial reaction, John continued. "I mean, last night, you went to bed shortly after 2:00 in the morning. I thought you were suffering from insomnia...I-"_

_"John, I'm fine." It was short, curt._

_John had not addressed his growing concern since._

12:43

No reply. John had to remind himself that there was no need to worry because this was Sherlock Holmes he was trying to communicate with, and he was not the best at his social skills. Etiquette was not a part of the "Mind Palace" apparently. Still, John was getting a little nervous. He did not even know if Sherlock was with Lestrade and the others or not. Surely if it was a case, he would have been invited. He had been dragged to them when he refused, so what was going on?

1:00

John, being very mindful of Mrs. Hudson asleep, threw on his coat and fled out the door.

1:02 _Sherlock, where the bloody hell are you? I know it's late, but I haven't heard a peep out of you. Is everything all right?_

He did not even bother hailing a taxi. After "A Study in Pink," John was still kind of wary about getting in a cab by himself. He was armed, of course. So he felt more confident walking down the dark streets of London where the field was open. No one was in control of the environment, and being a soldier, he preferred it this way.

Not much was going on, since it was a Sunday night and some of the pubs were further in the opposite direction of Baker Street. John was relieved he did not have to deal with a bunch of drunks tumbling out in a brawl. The only light was the moon and a few streetlamps here and there. And it was quiet. John just kept walking, checking his phone every thirty seconds or so, becoming more and more anxious.

_Please just be doing something stupid that won't get you killed._

He kept telling himself this when his mobile started to ring. Not looking at the Caller ID, he answered, "I'm going to kill you Sher-"

" _John? It's Lestrade_."

"Oh. Hello. Um, is Sherlock with you by any chance?"

There was a pause. " _He is now_."

John could tell something was up. "W-what's wrong?"

He could here Lestrade take a deep breath. _Oh God._ " _Meet me at St. Thomas'..._ "

"..."

" _John?_ "

"..." John closed his eyes in dread. "Is he all right?"

" _He's in surgery_."

"Give me ten minutes." John hung up and sprinted. The idiot, he went and did something stupid.

* * *

It was about midnight, and Sherlock was high as a kite. Not with drugs, he swore to John and Mrs. Hudson those days were over. But his adrenaline gave him this sensation he craved. The thrill of the chase. There was nothing like it. A stupid and extremely predictable car-jacker was running away from the owner of a mini van, knowing he was in trouble. It was really one of Lestrade's interns undercover patrolling the streets, and when he showed his badge, the crook ran for it. Sherlock heard a trash can get knocked over and saw a figure running like hell to get away.

He laughed. He knew something was going to happen tonight. And he was catching up to him. He dialed Lestrade, knowing he was in the office doing paper work.

"Lestrade! Meet me at Westminister Bridge by the hospital. I've got a present for you!" He hung up, not caring in the least for any potential protests.

"Sherl-" Lestrade hung up irritated. "That's not my division..." He whined. But knowing Sherlock hated every other member of Scotland Yard, he knew he would just be letting another criminal get away. He grabbed his coat. "To hell with paperwork."

The suspect was approaching the bridge. He kept looking back at Sherlock, who was closing in. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a device that started beeping and dropped it behind him. The second Sherlock knew what it was, he tried to stop himself, but the momentum was too much.

**_BOOM!_ **

He was thrown back about six feet. He twisted in the air to try to catch himself on his hands and knees, but a piece of concrete hit his temple and he lost consciousness as he landed with a thud, his head pounding against the pavement like a child's ball.

* * *

"I'm gonna kill him." John was in the parking lot of the hospital. "He's going to make me cater to him hand and foot and he'll be bored and what did I do to deserve this?" The mouthing to himself ceased as soon as he entered through the sliding doors of the entrance. It was just common courtesy to not go into a hospital acting like a raging lunatic.

The staff was limited as the hour was late, and thankfully, not as many patients. John asked for a "Holmes" and the receptionist asked for ID, which John patiently gave him. He just wanted to make sure Sherlock was ok.

"Fifth floor, Doctor Watson. Room 546." John thanked her and went up into the elevator. What he found made his heart jump into his throat. Lestrade was pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his grey hair.

"Lestrade?" John asked quietly, not wanting to startle him.

The inspector jerked his head up, and John could tell something was wrong. "The doctor is coming out any minute now."

That "any minute now," although it was 3.48 minutes, felt like an eternity. The doctor came out and John and Lestrade looked for any warnings as to what the news could be.

"How is he?"

The doctor took his glasses off. "Well..." _Oh, that's_ never _good._ "Surgery saved his life. He's asleep right now. Won't be expected to wake up for a day or two. We ran some tests, took x-rays, and are waiting on the results, which should come in the next three days."

"What happened?"

"The explosion on the bridge threw him back and he landed on his left temple after being hit by debris on his right. There are lacerations that we stitched up, but the damage cannot be determined until we get the results back."

"What do you think?" John was clenching his jaw, not liking the sound of any of this.

"I will let you know. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other patients I have to attend to."

* * *

Three days later of hospital food, John noticed Lestrade sit next to him in the waiting room for families and loved ones. John never left, for fear of not being the first to hear the news on Sherlock.

The doctor appeared. "He's awake, if you want to see him."

John did not miss a beat as he followed the doctor, Lestrade close behind. "Well?" They approached Sherlock's room he had been in since after surgery. John could not help but cut his eyes to the little window made into the thick wooden door.

"I have made a diagnosis. And this is rare." Pause. "Has Sherlock been acting strange lately? As far as his motor skills."

Come to think of it, John had noticed Sherlock moving more tediously as if in constant pain. But he did not want to bruise the ego of his flatmate, so he let it be. "Actually, yes. But this was before the explosion, following a couple of minor but far too repetitive injuries he would come home with."

The doctor paused. _Paused. That's not good._ "I'm afraid it's possibly..." John held his breath. "Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS)."

White noise. John heard nothing else. The doctor must have dumbed down the terms so Lestrade could understand... _just like Sherlock would do for me to understand_...but John had heard of this horrid disease named after some athlete he did not care to think about at the moment.

"Come." The doctor opened the door, and John entered.

* * *

_Van...used...kids...Couple...young...suspect...inexperienced...dull...chasing...bridge...explosion...pain...pain...darkness..._

Sherlock heard a click, then blinked. He was blinded by white. A hospital. John was going to have his head. He was propped up with huge white pillows in a hospital gown with an IV in his right arm. He could feel a bandage on his temple, then the pit of his stomach dropped for a moment. He ran through the last thing he remembered, and calmed down. He was going to be fine. He was going to be fine. He...

_John_

The poor bloke was hurt, probably emotionally more than he was physically.

"Sherlock?"

"Hello, John." He tried to smile, but could not. Odd.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock did not acknowledge the doctor, but started assessing himself.

"Splitting headache, fatigued, parched..." John immediately went for a cup of ice cubes and carefully placed it in his roommate's mouth. Sherlock sucked on it for a moment as everyone waited patiently. "Burns are minor, just sore all over."

The doctor nodded. Lestrade was silent, staring at the corner of the room opposite of himself. John never left his side, knelt next to the bed.

"Well, I have your results."

Sherlock stiffened. John gently took his hand, which Sherlock grabbed.

"You have Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, also known as-"

"Lou Gehrig's Disease." Sherlock swallowed. "I've heard of it. But...I..." He could feel John stroking his hand with his thumb, trying to comfort him. "What about the brain?" He teared up.


	2. Chapter 2

John's mind was racing faster than he thought Sherlock's was, and _that_ was saying something. How could he have not seen the signs? He could have taken Sherlock to get checked up on earlier. He could have tried to keep him home more. He could have gone with him on his wild goose chases, including the literal one. But who was he fooling? This disease eats away your body. It deteriorates into a crumpled heap of newspaper that cannot be unfolded. The pain was unbearable. Sherlock would not be able to eat [not that he does much anyway] swallow, possibly sleep, knowing the insomniac he was. His immune system will be useless, therefore leaving him prone to pneumonia, and...

_Oh God, no…_

"Your brain will function as always. Your thought patterns will remain untouched…" Damn that doctor, just spit it out!

"But…" John knows too well in situations like this there is always a "but."

"Eventually, no one will know what you are thinking." _Pause._ "If you catch pneumonia, which is highly more than likely due to your poor immune system, then we will have to go in and-"

"That's enough!" John snapped.

…

"I am sorry."

…

John felt Sherlock's grip slacken, and he started shaking. John kept holding on, though.

"But, Doctor-"

"There is no treatment. The average-"

"I will have him hear none of that nonsense!" John let go only to stand up and shout in his military voice that rarely came out. The room was just as silent as was before. John tried to calm himself.

"John…"

"You're going to be just fine, Sherlock." John turned to look down at those eyes, pleading for a solution that even the consulting detective could not find. "I promise."

"I think we should all let Mr. Holmes get his rest." Everyone started filing out.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the bed. "John?"

John stopped at the door. He held up a finger. "I will be right outside the door, and then I will be back." Sherlock did not nod, but John knew he understood, and quietly closed the door behind him.

John spun on his heel, and stared down the doctor in front of him. "Don't _ever_ give news like that to him. He has enough hopeless thoughts as is! I'm sure he already knows, but it doesn't have to be repeated."

"Doctor Watson, I know you are upset, but-"

"When can I take him home?"

"Uh…well…" The doctor cut himself off from blabbering, seeing as the army doctor was going to have none of it. "You can take him in the morning. Just give us the night for observation…you don't realize what lies ahead. This is going to be a heavy defeat."

"That's where you're wrong." John took a deep breath. "Because we're going to fight this together. And there is nothing that man cannot do, and I am always there to make sure of it every bloody time."

The doctor had to admire his spirit, but he did not say another word as he let the other doctor step back into the room with his patient. He left them in peace to check on other patients.

John quietly closed the door, not wanting to disturb Sherlock in case he fell asleep.

He was wide awake.

"I heard everything."

"Course you did." John could not help but smile. His emotions were all over the place. He sat right back down where he intended to stay for the night. "I'll get you out of here as soon as that sun comes back up."

"Too bad it's not sooner. You know how much I despise hospitals. They're very boring."

Boring would not be the word John would use to describe them. But he was not a high-functioning sociopath with a massive intellect.

John just sat there and smiled. He fought back tears. He had to be strong for Sherlock because he knew how much he was suffering already. They did not have much time, either…what? No! Of course they did! Sherlock Holmes is the most stubborn human being to walk the earth, and no stupid motor neuron disease was going to get in his way. John prayed silently for a miracle.

* * *

It was about tea time the next day when Mrs. Hudson arrived. John had already made sure that she would not be questioned at the check-in desk. Nobody gave her any trouble.

A nurse knocked twice, then opened it, revealing a smiling Mrs. Hudson with a tray of tea and an assortment of her biscuits. John noticed she baked the only kind Sherlock would eat.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson." John got up from his seat and hugged the old sweet woman.

"Good afternoon, John." Mrs. Hudson already had tears in her eyes, but put on a brave face. John had already briefed her that morning while Sherlock was still asleep. "I brought his favorite. Poor things, I know how dreadful hospital food is. But I could have sworn you two would be home by now."

"I know, I know. But he would not sleep last night. He finally nodded off around 8:42, and I..." John swallowed hard. "I didn't want to disturb him."

Mrs. Hudson saw the kicked puppy look on John, and just held him. John still did not let the tears fall. He knew if he did, he would make her cry, then Sherlock would wake up, and they would never hear the end of it.

They had their tea and whispered quietly to each other at the little table by the window. Each of them kept shooting worried glances at Sherlock, ready to dart to his side once he woke.

"I didn't know he could sleep like that."

"The doctors offered to knock him out, but I would have none of it."

"So how did you manage?"

"Not sure. He must have gotten bored trying to deduce everything in the room and tell me of all the scandals going on in the hospital, which wasn't that many."

"...how many?"

"Just five."

A short little silence dwindled, then they both giggled to each other. Some shuffling on the bed alerted them of the man waking up. John moved both of their seats back on either side of the bed and just waited patiently.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times, blinded by the whiteness of the room and moaned.

"John?"

"I'm here, Sherlock...and Mrs. Hudson is with me. She brought some tea and your favorite..."

"Buttermilk scones?"

"With my mother's strawberry jam recipe!"

Sherlock smiled. "Thank-you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Anything for my boys." She kissed him on the head.

About fifteen minutes later, when everyone had finished their tea, Sherlock started getting antsy again.

"Right." John got up. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to go get a nurse, and you can hand her Sherlock's clean clothes, and she will get him dressed. They'll bring a wheelchair, and..."

"Already taken care of, John Watson."

John turned to the opened door to see none other that Mycroft Holmes, umbrella and all. John wished he could just disappear right now, as his headache that blasted doctor gave him was bad enough. Now he was going to have to ride in the car with two "men" that acted like toddlers fighting over the last toy.

"I should've known." John mumbled to himself. He looked to Sherlock, who would rather just crawl home himself than ride with his brother.

"Nurse." Mycroft summoned sweetly in that fake voice that made Sherlock want to strangle him. "Let's give them some privacy. I would not want a repeat of Buckingham Palace. Thank heavens her Royal Highness could not witness such an immature stunt."

"If I remember correctly, I had refused to come in the first place, and beings I was not dressed, that should have been a sign to you to not make me come. So, technically, it's your fault. And you are the one whose rather over-sized feet seized my drape."

"Whatever makes you feel better, little brother." Sherlock gave him a look of death, which Mycroft just smiled back at. They all left so the nurse could do her work.

* * *

The ride home was all a blur to John, really. He called shotgun, leaving poor Mrs. Hudson to sit in between the Holmes brothers.

"Mycroft! Leave the poor dear alone! He's been in the hospital for Christ's sake!"

"Yes, Mycroft, please. I've been tortured in there, do cut me some slack." Then, in lower tones, he was wondering where his shock blanket was.

"First Mummy, and now Mrs. Hudson. Tell me, Sherlock, why do you always need a woman to protect your ego? I can assure you, I have not the skills to do so, for I have tried ever since the day you were born."

"Shut up." Sherlock mumbled, then stared out the window in silence, pouting the rest of the way home.

 _Finally_. John was so grateful to return home with Sherlock safe and sound. Although, with the British government as an escort, one does not have to worry about tedious things like safety.

Mrs. Hudson and John helped Sherlock up to their flat, Mycroft standing in the hallway looking after them.

"I'm sure you two can take it from here. We'll keep an eye out."

"You always do." John sarcastically responded. After Sherlock was seated back in his chair, John stepped outside the flat to catch Mycroft before he pulled off. "Mycroft?"

The tall man stopped before he opened the car door. He did not turn around, but just lifted his chin up, giving John the signal that he was listening.

"I appreciate your...um...it was very uh..."

"You're welcome, John. I told you he is always under my good eye."

John nodded with a smile as the black car drove off. Letting out a sigh of relief-two Holmes is more than a handful-John went back upstairs to his friend. He needed him now more than ever, and John was not going to leave his side.

* * *

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I don't require your services at the moment." Sherlock moaned. Somehow, John figured he did it loud enough so he could hear it all the way down stairs. Typical drama queen.

"Now, Sherlock-"

"Mrs. Hudson, please." Sherlock curled up with a blanket she had supplied him. He perked up though when he heard new footsteps. "John?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Just had to go see your brother off." He sat down in his chair opposite of Sherlock's.

"Don't see the purpose of that."

"It's called being polite, which I know you seemed to have erased up their in that palace of yours, but..." John stopped himself. He choked up, realizing where they had just been.

"But, what?"

"Nothing, nothing." John turned towards the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was cleaning. Poor thing, she was not their housekeeper, but she could not stand the wreck-of-a-place that is 221B Baker Street. John seized this perfect opportunity to leave the conversation. "Here, Mrs. Hudson, you go and rest. I'll take care of..." _eyeballs, teeth, and...fingernails..._ "all of that."

"If you insist, dear. Let me know if you boys need anything." Mrs. Hudson gave no argument, but silently thanked him for offering to clean up another one of Sherlock's experiments. John knew it was going to smell if he did not do away with it soon.

"Thank-you." John and Mrs. Hudson stared at the lump under the blanket in the couch. Sherlock Holmes does not thank people... _at all_. Mrs. Hudson left with tears running down her cheeks.

"Right, now, Sherlock, I'm going to have to throw these body parts out before the whole building is infected with this stench."

A sigh. "If you must..."

It took everything he had to not break down again right there in the middle of the eyeballs. Sherlock _never_ wanted his experiments thrown out. John knew things had changed for the worse. He kept praying for his friend's health.


	3. Chapter 3

The first week home from the hospital was the hardest time John had ever had before Reichenbach. And Sherlock in a hospital bed was miserable. He could tell Sherlock was trying so hard...so, so hard to help. John could not remember a time outside of a case where Sherlock put forth any effort. He acted like a zombie, complaining of boredom, never doing anything practical. But now he was not acting. And the one time he tried, he just could not do it. It broke John's heart.

Mrs. Hudson, God bless her, checked up on her boys every day, bringing them tea and treats of all sorts. Sometimes she stayed and chatted with them. Other times, she quickly popped her head in for a greeting, then left. She did not want to cry in front of them. It was hard enough as is. It started out great, compared to Sherlock's typical "diet" which was really hardly eating, just drowning in tea. He ate less and less as the days went by.

Today was extremely difficult.

"C'mon, now. Let's try to eat something. You need your strength." He had soup and tea made for the both of them. It was to keep the tall, thinning man warm, and it was light enough to not upset his fragile stomach.

"I'm tired, John."

"I know, I know. That's why you need it now more than ever."

He got no response, of course. He was not about to let Sherlock just give up.

"If you eat something, then I will-"

"I don't like being bribed." He curled into a tight ball, although with great effort, hence the grimacing moans coming from his throat.

John did not want to push him today on food. He did manage to get some breakfast in him that morning. He was proud of Sherlock for that not-so-small victory. But he did not like what he was seeing, as the worst-case scenario started playing in his head.

_His body will deteriorate._ Not on John's watch.

"P-please don't do that." John knelt in front of the couch, nearly a foot away from the back of the genius' head. The curls were more of a mess than usual. "Your muscles will cramp up. You need to stretch out and lie on your back."

"But John..." Sherlock was actually complaining about pain. This never happened. Not that John was going to point it out or anything, but this was not good. More than a bit not good at all.

"I know it hurts." He swallowed, trying to hide his emotions. "I'm a doctor, remember? Now c'mon, easy now." John slowly helped Sherlock roll onto his back. His knees were pointing up, feet planted into the couch. "Let's straighten out...slowly...good."

Sherlock let out a pained sigh, and closed his eyes. He did not move. John threw a blanket over him to keep him warm.

"Better?"

"...yes...just really tired."

"Go on to sleep, then. I'll be right here." He could _not_ break down in front of Sherlock, but seeing him like this made John's heart ache. For someone who could not sleep because of having too much on his mind, it was like culture-shock to have Sherlock sleeping all of the time. No movement all day except to shower and use the toilet. He hated that John followed him like a puppy everywhere, but the last thing John wanted was for Sherlock to slip and fall in the shower and...

John won that battle. End of story.

He sat back in his chair and picked up a book to read for the afternoon nap Sherlock had been falling prey to ever since they had left the hospital. John knew he was weak and needed rest. He also knew that Sherlock curling in on himself would make the process of...well, the inevitable process come faster, and John was not going to have it. He wanted Sherlock to fight this, even if it meant to just prolong what was hopefully not soon to come. John tried not to imagine what would happen if a case came up and they could not go. It would kill Sherlock. And he was not going to leave the world's only consulting detective alone to take his place out in the field.

He could not go through something even more traumatic and permanent than last time around. So Sherlock had to stay home, waiting for a miracle that John kept praying would come.

* * *

About three hours and twenty-four minutes later, Sherlock blinked and frowned. Slowly he tried to sit up, and before he could register, John was there helping him up.

"I'm _fine_ , John."

A little bit of venom was in his voice, so John sat him up and backed up, hands in surrender. "I'm just trying to help."

"Well, I don't need your help!" John's hurt expression caused Sherlock to backtrack. A long silence lingered the two flatmates, just staring at each other. "I, uh, John, what I meant was-"

"It's all right. I know it's more frustrating than Anderson touching evidence." That got a smile John had not seen in so long. "But I know you're, well, not in the best of condition, and I already made up my mind that I was going to do whatever it takes to make you better. I gave you my word. You just have to do your best to cooperate. That's all I'm asking."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He hated cliche phrases that were supposed to make someone feel better. People just say those things to be polite. "Enough with the cheesy drama, John, I hear you." Sherlock complained. His brain registered that he was being too hard on John. He was only trying to help. "But I trust you." Because John was not other people. John was different.

"I know you do." That was an apology John accepted whole-heartedly.

Sherlock then shot his eyebrows into his curly hair, squinting his eyes in deep concern. "Why are you reading that insufferable compilation of words that somehow managed to get published by people who have no taste in literature?"

"It's a classic!" John lifted the book up, though it was still open so he would not lose his place.

"Dull." He rolled his eyes.

"You should give it a go. Give you something to do."

"Mmmmm...there are other things to entertain me..."

John knew where that mindset was going. "Nope..." He shook his head one time. "I have banned experiments in this flat for your health...and to be honest, for all of our safety."

"But John..."

John just glared hard at Sherlock, and after a minute, Sherlock huffed in defeat.

"Fine."

John could not help but laugh. He went back to his spot on the page where he left off. He felt eyes still on him, and looked back up.

Sherlock had his hand out, palm up, just like he does when he wanted his phone or John's laptop. Why does he never use his own? "Well, give it here."

"What? No."

"...then why were you-"

"I'm not finished."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to figure out the reason behind that kind of reaction. "It can't be that good."

"You'd be surprised."

"Doubtful."

John laid _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ onto his lap face down and reached for the other book on the arm of his chair.

"Here."

He handed Sherlock _Dracula_. Sherlock stared at it, not bothering to even read the inside summary.

"What?"

"Why would I bore myself with this? It's about a vampire who sucks the blood of their victims and terrorizes people with supernatural abilities. And the idiots who think they can kill it try and fail over and over again." Sherlock dramatically dropped it on the floor. "I'm not reading something I already know everything about. It'll be just a waist of my time. I want to read yours."

"I'm not finished."

"John."

"That is a good read. When I am finished, I promise you can read this one."

"Jooooooooooooooooooohn."

John just continued reading, blocking out Sherlock's tantrum. He had had lots of practice, and was an expert. Sherlock moaned again and laid back down. Since when was arguing so exhausting? Sherlock did not care. He just wanted to feel a little more normal by having another volley with John.

* * *

Sherlock was furious. It was 2:26 A.M., and once more, John had insisted on him sleeping in his bed. Most nights, Sherlock won out and slept on the couch, but since his energy level had dropped significantly, John became more of a "mother hen." He stared up at the dark ceiling, thinking about anything and everything, from how the cracks in the wall came from their annoying neighbors upstairs who were too busy scuffling around with their new cat to the unusual yet relieved snoring coming from John. The nightmares had receded for the most part since moving into 221B, and Sherlock was proud, since he had to have _something_ to do with John's recovery. He really looked at the man next to him.

John was resting on his right elbow, laying over the arm of the oversized chair. His short legs were tucked in front of him, barefoot, toes pressing against the other end. His other arm was in front of his stomach, where his phone was laying, most likely fully charged and on ring in case of emergency. Sherlock could see the bags under the soldier's eyes. This past week or so had done a number on both of them. He knew he was not the only one in pain. John...poor John...

His only friend. His blogger. He really would be lost without him.

John had promised he would sit right there in the bedroom with Sherlock in case he needed anything. All of these promises. He threw them left and right, yet continued to surprise the consulting detective by following through with no complaint. This was new to the sociopath. The only promises he ever made were to the whole of Scotland Yard and John that he can and will solve the case. But that wa because he _knows_ it can be done. How does John know this can be done?

_Don't be ridiculous. This is John you're talking about._

_John Watson is a good man, whose word is worth the Crown Jewels. Scratch that, it's priceless. Can't be bought. More like the solar system, since John can't help but marvel at its...grandness?_

Sherlock still could not figure that one out. He made a mental note to work on that later. Perhaps John could teach him a thing or two after all. But he had taught him one very important thing, and that was the value of friendship that came with loyalty, honesty, and compassion...damn it, even love! And Sherlock hated talking about emotions. It makes people weak. But ever since that little man came into his life, his perspective on petty emotions changed. And he believes it was for the better.

There is not another person in the world...and the solar system...that Sherlock trusted with everything. No one else besides Mycroft has been allowed to get this close to him. Why John? Because John. It was elementary. He knew he could always, _always_ , rely on John Watson. He proved that by saving his life without a second thought on their first case.

And Sherlock Holmes has trusted him with his life ever since that moment.


	4. Chapter 4

John awoke to the sound with his head centimeters away from smacking the arm of the chair. His neck was killing him. He decided he needed to bring a cot with him to Sherlock's room the next night. It was bad enough with his leg and shoulder. Adding another injury to the list was not ideal.

Blinking, he squinted at the bright light on his phone. It was a text from Lestrade.

_Wanted to check in on you fellas. How is he? Also, just between you and me, Moriarty has resurfaced. Don't worry, I've been informed by Mycroft that he is already looking into it. GL_

John's stomach flipped again. Moriarty was back?

A moan brought him back to the present.

_Here goes nothing._

John put his phone down on the little table next to the bed and leaned forward. His neck was numbed by adrenaline.

"John?"

"I'm here. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock looked around. "What time?"

"Uh..." He tapped his phone. "10:37."

"Is this what it's like to sleep normally? Ever since we came back, I've been sleeping more, which I find regrettably relaxing and extremely boring."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the real world." John stood up. "Come on, now. Up we go." He placed his palm between Sherlock's shoulder blades, helping him sit up. Sherlock lazily slung his legs off to touch the floor, and John helped him put his slippers on. "Let's get you dressed. Mrs. Hudson will be here around noon for lunch."

"John."

"Mmm?" He tilted his head, biting his bottom lip.

"What did the text say?"

"Lestrade is looking into a new case..." He was not going to tell him, not now, at least. "He also wanted to see how you were doing."

"What was the reply?"

"I didn't."

Sherlock frowned, knowing something was up. "Why?"

"Well..."

"John."

The look Sherlock gave him told him he already knew. He gave in. "Moriarty is back."

"Obviously."

"Wait, how-"

"Your whole demeanor has changed. You're shaking from nerves, not PTSD, don't start with that excuse. And you always reply Lestrade back immediately about my condition, and there's not much that will throw you off...except for him."

John was, once again, speechless at the flawless deduction. "All right, you got me. But what I want to know is how? He shot himself before you-uh..."

"Nevermind that. What did Lestrade say?"

"He didn't cause I found it more important to tend to you since you were waking up."

"This is why I don't sleep. You people miss everything."

"I'm going to ignore that comment and point out how much stronger you are since you have been more rested, which will only help you get be-"

"I'M NEVER GOING TO GET BETTER JOHN!" Sherlock cried.

John froze in the chair. Tears fought to break through his eyes again. Damn this crying all the time. It was not like him...or Sherlock.

Sherlock was breathing as if he was having a panic attack and could not. "My body is not going to last much longer. I may not be at my best right now, but I can at least _look_ at the crime scene. And you will be right there, just like always."

John had been dreading this moment right here. He did not want to put Sherlock in danger. He was in danger right now, not counting the disease tearing him apart. Once again, a target was on his back, and if Moriarty found out about their current circumstance...oh God, no.

"I am strong enough to use your cane." John looked his friend in the eye. _Let him have one last go around._

"Right, you are." John will never forgive himself...

Which is why they were not going.

"Look, John, if he finds out I didn't show up at the crime scene, he will look into it more and find out. Then he will-"

"No. Don't say it." John helped him up and got him ready.

* * *

An hour later, Mrs. Hudson walked in.

"Afternoon, boys! We have a guest."

Sherlock moaned in despair. There was Mycroft, once again, in 221B. One would think he lived here as much as he visited.

"Hullo, brother of mine."

"Kill me now."

"SHERLOCK!"

"It's an expression, John! You people are so emotional!"

John did not want to point out the _emotional_ outburst not a half hour ago.

"It seems Moriarty has left you a message at the hospital...on your previously occupied room's window."

"Oh?"

Mycroft handed him a manila envelope, and Sherlock slowly opened it. John got up and walked around to the back of his chair to have a look.

_Did you miss me?_ was written in red paint on the window.

"Blood." Sherlock read John's mind.

"How did he know?" John was really scared now, not by the amount of blood used to write out the message.

"This is Moriarty we're talking about. He has eyes and ears everywhere...including the hospital."

"So now what do we do? We can't stay here." John's mind was whirling trying to figure out what to do.

"No, you won't." Mrs. Hudson set a tray of tea and biscuits down. "I've already packed, and you boys should get to it. Tea?"

"Much obliged, Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft smiled. "I've already arranged for Mrs. Hudson to be put in protective custody, whilst you two will be sent off...elsewhere."

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not hiding."

"Unfortunately, my dear brother, you don't have much of a say so at the moment, due to your health."

"What do you mean by 'at the moment'?" John wondered.

"I'm going to fix all of this once and for all." Mycroft declared as he took a bite of biscuit.

* * *

Sherlock pouted in the car. He hated not knowing where he was going. Is this what John felt like? He was getting sleepy. He hated that just as much. John remained silent right by his side. Mycroft, thankfully, sat in the front passenger seat to appease Sherlock.

"Are we traveling around the world Mycroft, or are we-" Sherlock was too stunned to continue.

John looked out the window. _Not here again._

"Why in the hell are we here?"

"You should be thanking me, Sherlock...you really should." Mycroft said that last part a little too solemnly under his breath.

The car pulled up to the security checkpoint of Baskerville.

* * *

"I think you'll find this room most comfortable. Someone will be here to escort you to the lab in a few moments. I'll meet you there."

It looked like a hotel bedroom. The only difference was that it was neat as a pin. Of course, military. Sherlock thought John would have found this much more appealing if it was not in this place of nightmares neither were still over.

Using John's cane, as promised, Sherlock went over to sit down on the bed.

"Do you know why we're here?"

"I believe this is not the first place Moriarty will come looking for us."

"Yeah, no one in their right mind would want to come here." Not that Jim Moriarty had a right mind.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"What did Mycroft mean by he was going to fix this?"

"I meant it literally, Dr. Watson." Mycroft entered with a man in a lab coat with a black medicine bag. "I'm fixing my brother's unfortunate state."

John walked to where he was standing between Sherlock and the new occupants. "I don't understand."

"Please, have a seat." John hesitantly sat down next to Sherlock, who was silently studying the unknown doctor in the room. "This is Doctor James Durham, one of the top specialists Baskerville has to offer. I have been in contact with him for quite some time since my brother's hospital evaluation. Would you care to explain your findings?"

"Certainly, thank-you, Mr. Holmes. Now, this may be difficult to understand, but I'm going to cut to the chase."

Sherlock inhaled as John tried but failed to prepare himself for more bad news. The room was deathly silent for all of five minutes.

Dr. Durham looked at Sherlock. "You do not have ALS."

Sherlock tried to make sense of this new information, but could not for the life of him. First, he was told he was a dead man walking, and now he was not? What sort of sick joke was this? Oh... _Oh..._

"I'm sorry, what? Sherlock was diagnosed by-"

"By one of Moriarty's doctors."

John looked at him like he had grown a second head.

Dr. Durham continued. "James Moriarty hired that doctor to give a false but almost believable diagnosis to throw you two off. We believe the explosion was a way to inject Sherlock with a drug that mimics the symptoms of ALS. Sherlock, if you do not remember, that is fine, but do you recall being injected right before you got to the bridge?"

"Uh..." Sherlock was searching his mind, but found nothing. "There was this sharp pain in my head that I thought was from the bridge."

"Moriarty has some very skilled snipers, as you know." Mycroft interjected. "They have perfect aim."

"So Sherlock was tranqilized by one of Moriarty's snipers?" John was both horrified and relieved. Does this mean Sherlock was _not dying_?

"Yes, and I have the cure right in here." Dr. Durham dug in his bag, then pulled out a needle.

"John?" Sherlock stared at the needle, still not believing what he was hearing. All this time...

"Don't worry, Sherlock. I know you and your brother don't always see eye-to-eye, buy you can trust him...right?"

"You know I would never have considered this if I knew it was going to cause any harm."

John nodded then took Sherlock's hand, who squeezed it tightly. "So he's going to get better?"

"He will be good as new in the morning after he sleeps, allowing the antidote to fight the drug." He prepared to shot. "All right now, give me your arm." Sherlock did not want to let go of John's hand, but he looked at Mycroft, who gave him a slight nod of reassurance before he obeyed the doctor. "Good." He rolled Sherlock's sleeve up, then injected the fluid. It stung a little, but Sherlock was too fascinated by the way it was pressed into his body, showing less and less of the pale green in the little tube. "Now, you may feel a little drowsy, so the best thing you can do right now is sleep. I must be off, so I'll check up on you in the morning."

Sherlock just stared at his arm.

"Dr. Durham. I cannot thank you enough for, you know." John swallowed hard. "Thank-you."

"Of course." He left with a smile on his face.

"Well, that was quite interesting, wasn't it?" Mycroft stood up, pressing his umbrella into the floor. "I have my men on constant watch of this room, not that anyone else can get into Baskerville. It's just for your reassurance." He turned to walk out.

"Mycroft?"

The elder brother looked back at his little brother.

"Thank-you."

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

The door shut quietly. John turned to Sherlock, who slowly looked back to meet his gaze. No words were said. Tears fell from the two flatmates as they hugged each other. Things were actually looking up.

"I bloody told you." John sobbed.

"For once, John, you were right while I was in the wrong. And I am so glad I was." The smile could not have been more humble and genuine coming from the high-functioning sociopath.

"I cannot believe you just said that." John laughed.

"I can't believe you're still here, after all of...that."

"Sherlock, I told you I was not going to give up on you." He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, wet from his tears. "That's what friends are for. They look out for each other."

"I've never had a friend before."

"Well, get used to it, because I'm not going anywhere."

"That's good, because I know you want a piece of Moriarty after I'm done with him."

"The hell, I do." John had this dark look in his eyes. "This is low, even for him."

"Never underestimate someone like him. They are always full of surprises."

"Well, we'll figure out what to do soon, but for now, bed."

"Yes, Dr. Watson." Sherlock mocked with an adorable smile on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

_Nobody could be that clever._

_You could..._

Sherlock let out a deep sigh as he returned to consciousness. He felt like he was waking up from a coma. But he was aware of everything around him. He was in a room, lying in a bed, with John...

Wait, John?

Sherlock felt the presence of body heat next to him, the slight snoring of his flatmate, in peaceful sleep that he had not noticed in a long time. Sherlock slowly sat up so as not to disturb him. Rolling out of the bed, he went to go change. Trying to be quiet, he put on his pants, white button-up, and black jacket. Just like every other morning. Actually, that was a lie, sometimes he did not even bother dressing since he lounged around in his robe a lot when there was no case. But Moriarty was back, and he was more than ready to get back into the game, especially after...

His mind halted, trying to process the last 27 minutes since he woke up. He checked himself over, and started pacing the small room, forgetting the sleeping form on the bed that started to stir. Did that really just happen? It was as if the past several days had not happened. Did it work? Was he dreaming? He never dreams. It was dull. That was what ordinary people do, and he was _not_ ordinary.

"John."

John moaned, rolling over and taking confiscation of Sherlock's pillow.

" _John_."

Burying his face into said pillow, John moaned in refusal of waking up.

"John!"

Shooting up as if back in the army, John was wide awake, alert as ever.

"Sherlock? What is it? Is he here? Is-"

"John, look at me."

John turned to look at the man standing at the foot of the bed, dressed and poised just like always. Could it be?

"Sherlock?" Keeping his eyes locked on the man, John slowly got out of bed and walked towards him. He looked him up and down, noticing the slight tinge of color back in the pale man's face, the messed up yet flawless hair, the perfect posture, those eyes...burning once again with passion and desire for adventure.

Sherlock was back.

"Are you..." John swallowed a choke coming up. Was this all just a nightmare that was finally over?

"Yes."

John stared in disbelief. He laughed. "That's, that's great. Bloody hell." He did not realize he was hugging Sherlock until he felt strong arms wrap around him, patting him on the back in reassurance. The strength was back. Sherlock was all right. John's prayers were finally answered.

Sherlock stiffened when John embraced him, but he quickly assessed that this was an appropriate time for such a gesture, so he joined in by enclosing his friend as well.

A knock on the door made Sherlock curse the day his brother was born as said man went ahead and opened the door.

"By all means, come in, your majesty."

Mycroft ignored him as always. "I trust you two slept well last night."

"Yes, we did, thanks." John felt a little embarrassed he was still in his pajamas, but with Mycroft, he never really felt comfortable around him.

Dr. Durham shortly arrived with a stethoscope around his neck. "Good morning, gentlemen. And how are we feeling?"

"Just fine." Sherlock casually stated, although not as rude as he normally would. John figured the social etiquette would wear off soon.

"Fantastic. Let me just do a few checkups on you." As Dr. Durham checked Sherlock's pulse, breathing, and vision, asking him questions here and there, Mycroft had someone bring in some breakfast that he and John started nibbling at. John could not help but smirk at how annoyed Sherlock was at this dull process. He was just itching to leave this place just as much as John was so they could get on with finding Moriarty.

A few minutes later, Sherlock let out a sigh of relief that it was all over. The next few minutes were all a blur to him, really. Durham said his goodbyes, and after such pleasantries and thank-yous, they were finally left in peace. Well, all except that Mycroft was still in the room. Did he not have a country to run?

John pulled out a chair for Sherlock to sit at. It was a small table, bigger than the one at Baker Street, though. A plate of fruit, a muffin, and an egg was in front of the detective. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. He did not even acknowledge that breakfast was being served, but he did begin to dress his tea only to find that it was already just how he liked it.

John knew how he liked it.

"John, can we go now?" John smiled at that usual tone that was back. Annoyingly pleading Sherlock was back, and John could not be happier.

"Of course..." After chewing on his egg, he added, "...once you eat."

"I'm perfectly fine. Did you not listen to Durham?"

"I did. Which is why I know he said that you need to take better care of yourself so if you are poked again, any effects on any drug would have less of an effect on you since your immune system will be stronger. I'm not taking any more chances, so by God you are going to eat!"

Sherlock frowned. He hated when John used his army doctor voice on him. There was no arguing with the little man. Sherlock mumbled in frustration that he was fine, but started to eat anyway. He figured the sooner he was done eating, the sooner they could leave this miserable place and start on the hunt for Moriarty.

What felt like hours later, they were back in Mycroft's car on their way back to Baker Street. The drive seemed to drag on longer than the previous trip. But Sherlock found ways to entertain himself on his phone, sending texts to John to stop flirting with Mycroft's mysterious assistant with no name and just ask her out already. John replied via text that he was just being polite and he should try to keep it up now that he was better.

_That's dull. -SH_

_You were saying thank-you before. -JW_

_My mind was a little preoccupied with my body not working the way I needed it to. -SH_

_All that matters now is that you are better and we can move on. -JW_

John wished he could believe his own text, but not getting a reply from Sherlock gave him all the answers he needed. He did not think they would ever shake this stunt off. This was worse than that other incident that still haunted John's memories. He just wanted it all to end. John was not asking for a normal life. That nearly killed him as well. But a life with a little less...John could not put it into words. He loved going on cases with Sherlock. Murder was what brought them together. He just did not want that to be the thing that tore them apart forever.

Sherlock was hungry for the hunt. He was out for revenge. Nobody messed with his mind and got away with it. Moriarty had gone too far. And what was worse, it affected the other people in his life, and that gave Sherlock all the more reason to show no mercy to his nemesis.

He frowned as he got a text from someone he did not recognize. The text stated they had heard about the miraculous recovery and was thankful and he stopped reading the text because for the life of him, he had no idea who this man was. Sherlock found himself in need of information, so he leaned over and showed John his phone.

"John, I just got a text."

"That's great news." John sarcastically complimented.

"But who is this? I don't know anyone named 'Greg'..."

John read the text, then looked at Sherlock. The confusion on his face showed the genius was dumbfounded. John burst out laughing.

"Oh, Sherlock!" He doubled over, tears threatening to fall down his reddened face. "I really do worry about you."

"What's wrong?" Sherlock did not get why he would receive such a reaction. "I was just wondering if there was a 'Greg' I should know about. I thought he was a coworker of yours that you must have shared the news with or-"

"It's..." John took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "That's Lestrade!"

"Lestrade?" Sherlock did not have his contacts saved. He just had, what few people he texted, phone numbers memorized. But he and John still put their initials at the end of all of their texts, since it was the default setting they had on their phones.

"Yes! His name's Greg!"

"...oh." Sherlock sent a reply to "Greg" to let him know that he wanted to meet him back at the hospital.

* * *

Before they even got out of the car, Mrs. Hudson was practically rushing down the stairs to hug Sherlock, who was caught off guard. Too many intimate moments for one morning.

"Oh, Sherlock! I'm so glad you are feeling yourself again!" She had tears in her eyes. "Oh, John! Isn't this wonderful?"

"Indeed it is, Mrs. Hudson." John smiled warmly. 

"Mycroft Holmes, you!" She hugged Mycroft, who enjoyed it almost as much as Sherlock did. But he did not show it. "How can I ever thank you for taking care of my boys?"

"His health is thanks enough for me."

"John, all this nonsense is making me sick."

"Shut it." John nudged his arm. "You're going to have to get used to this. We do care about you an awful lot."

"We?" Sherlock looked down at John, who just stared back at him.

"Yeah, _I_ do. You know that."

Sherlock did know that. Deep down. He just was not used to being told it out loud. John's actions showed nothing but care and thoughtfulness. But to say it? It gave it a whole new level of importance that made Sherlock's stomach flip. Yet another odd sensation he was not used to. It had been happening a lot lately. Every time John would say something like that or do something out of the ordinary, he would get nervous. But why?

"Let's get you all inside. I'll make some tea. Mycroft, will you be joining us?"

"I'm afraid not. Have to keep things in order."

"That's right Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock assured. "We can't have her majesty away from her palace of pastries for much longer."

"Sherlock!"

"Oh, come off it, John! I made another funny!"

"We need to work on your sense of humor."

* * *

Greg huffed as he checked his phone again. He was specifically told to come at 5:00 to the hospital. Yet, here was, having waited for about half an hour already.

"Freak still not here?"

He rolled his eyes, not really wanting to lecture Donovan. Honestly, her and Sherlock were worse than siblings going at each other over the favorite toy. She knew about Sherlock's condition, hell, the whole of Scotland Yard did, but now that it was found out to be a trick, everyone went back to their old ways.

"You know Sherlock. Never on time."

"Lestrade, you know every time I come, things actually get accomplished."

And there he was. Long coat, scarf, and all. Just like any other day, any other crime scene. Accompanied by his doctor. Things were back to the way they were. Which was why Greg could not help but smile.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to suppress a groan. Hugging...again. Once Greg let go, Sherlock composed himself.

"Hello, Freak."

"Donovan." Sherlock immediately moaned like he was a dying cow. "Why is _he_ here? Please tell me you did not touch anything!"

"Well, that is my job, and don't worry. Your precious room is not contaminated, because I have these." Anderson flicked part of his glove, the sound of slapping against his palm showing emphasis.

"Let's just go."

Following Greg, Sherlock and John entered the hospital. Donovan and Anderson, much to Sherlock's dismay, joined them on the acsenion to the scene of the crime.

The game was on.


	6. Chapter 6

The room looked as if nobody had used it, awaiting its next patient. Sherlock could not help but dread the fact he was back in this room. This room where his life was to be ruined forever. This room that had terrified him. He could tell John was not comfortable either. And the writing on the window was not helping the situation.

_Did you miss me?_

The smell of blood made John nauseous. He figured they would have to investigate another homicide soon. Moriarty was beyond mad, but these past few stunts he had pulled sent John over the edge. He was going to exact vengeance for Sherlock's sake. Moriarty had gone too far.

Sherlock stared at the message, written backwards from his positioning. Moran must have taken the picture from the outside. The blood had dried, streams of it not quite making it to the bottom of the window. Anderson was doing something useless, since Sherlock had all of the answers he needed.

"So?" Lestrade came up to Sherlock's side, waiting for the consulting detective to go off on his lecture.

Sherlock did not answer. He knelt down, looking at the empty containers on the window. They were placed neatly next to each other. Most of the blood was emptied out and painted on the window. The name of the person's blood was clearly showcased on each bottle. Sherlock got up and searched the rest of the room. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Lestrade, tell Anderson he can continue ruining the crime scene. I'm done here. Let me know if anything comes up." He did not give Greg the chance to question what he had found out.

"Uh, right. See you soon, Greg." John nodded before following Sherlock out the door.

Greg just face-palmed. "One of these days, I'm going to understand what goes on in that head of his." He did a double take. "On second thought, I don't wanna know."

Donovan snorted. "Who does? The freak's probably got 101 ways to kill each of us without getting caught."

"Shut it." Greg really hated her sometimes.

* * *

Sherlock hailed a taxi, and it was not until they were well on their way back to the flat that John broke the silence.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." That was too quick of a reply.

"You didn't even show off to everyone what you came up with. Something you saw rubbed you the wrong way. What was it?" John gave Sherlock a pointed look.

Sherlock refused to make eye contact. He checked his phone, Mycroft having confirmed that Mrs. Hudson was safe. He looked up and stared into the back of the front passenger's seat. John continued to stare.

"Sherlock."

"What?"

John looked away for a second. "Are we back to this again?" At Sherlock's dumbfounded silence, John continued. "You not trusting me. You don't have to keep secrets from me. Before today..." He paused at Sherlock's sharp inhale. "You allowed me to help you. You let me be your friend. You let me in. Don't shut me out again. We've been through too much. And you don't have to be alone anymore. You have no choice, remember?"

Sherlock thought maybe he was just having a hallucination. That feeling was back. John was getting all emotional, causing him to feel the same way. He, once again, understood John was not backing off away from him. He decided long ago he could trust this man. So why not now?

He took a deep breath. "John, that was my blood."

* * *

Jim Moriarty was bored. And that was dangerous. He hated waiting. He tapped his phone every other minute, anticipating the thumbs up that the ball was in motion. He sighed. He did enjoy getting feedback from Seb that Sherlock and John were just miserable. He laughed at their tears that were shed every day. He basked in their horror of thinking that dear Sherlock was dying. And Jim saw Sherlock succumb to the "disease." The man fell, and guess who was there to catch him? None other than John Watson, the loyal dog. It disgusted Jim how much they cared about each other. Now that Sherlock was cured, he had grown soft. Not as broken as before. John Watson had given him a heart, _his_ heart, and Jim did not know how he felt about that. Oh well, he could be the good old-fashioned villain and just use John as leverage. Or something. He still had time to think about that.

A vibrate interrupted his thoughts.

Sometimes, Jim really hated his employees, but there were moments such as these where he felt like he could give them all a raise for a job well done. Almost. He was not that generous. Soon, his little playthings will arrive, and Jim could finally begin to solve his final problem.

He just needed to wait a little longer for the pieces of the puzzle to arrive.

They were coming. YEA! He took another sip of his tea. This was going to turn out to be a rather fun evening indeed. He got up to go change into a new suit. This one he had on had suffered from the wear and tear of the car ride down here. He had to look presentable for his guests.

* * *

"I'm sorry?" John blinked. "Yours?"

"Yes, the blood used on the window was mine from the test tubes. They had my name on them."

John's stomach flipped again.

"Moriarty wants to end it...once and for all."

"But...no! I'm going to make sure that doesn't happen." He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "We can beat him."

Sherlock could not help but smile down at his friend. John was smiling right back at him. And that was all the reassurance he needed.

Their moment was short-lived, however, when they realized they were not heading home. John looked at Sherlock, who just tapped his fingers on his knee. Understanding the message, John just continued to look out the window.

The car had sped up, leaving town. John did not think they would get to reunite with their enemy so soon, but living in a world with Sherlock, one can never assume anything. Another surprise was always right around the corner.

Sherlock figured where they were being taken, and was not too thrilled. A warehouse...how dull. It was outside the city limits, a quiet area, where no one would expect to go looking for them. Sherlock really hated obvious things. The driver pulled up to the building, got out and opened John's door first, since it was the closest. A gun was pointed to John's head, so he cooperated without struggle.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going, I'm going."

Sherlock was met by another gunman pointing at his head to get out and follow. He kept his eyes on John as they were both led inside. It was mostly empty, rafters circling the interior about twenty feet up. It was dimly lit, and beings there were no windows, it just made it look darker. A chair was placed in the middle, directly under a spotlight that had a circumference of only ten feet.

Jim was fidgeting. He was finally able to start. After being somewhat patient for so long, he could now officially return. Running his hands to smooth out wrinkles that were not there, he started walking forward as Sherlock was shoved into the chair and John was walked forward a few feet.

"Give us some space." Jim said dully, and the men walked off and stationed themselves outside the warehouse. He stood just outside of the light, taking in the sight of the two men before them.

This was going to be fun.

"Hello, my dears." Jim stepped into the light, a huge grin on his face. "How's life been treating you?" At John's murderous look, Jim laughed. "Oh wait, not too good!" He knew he was going to enjoy this.

"That was low, even for _you_." John did his best to keep his anger contained. He wanted to beat Jim to a pulp.

"But it was my best trick yet! Faking my own death was not near as fun as this was...tearing you two apart. But, it actually brought you closer together. I had suspected it, but now...I know. And how delicious this is, you two." His eyes kept darting back and forth between them.

Sherlock just stared at him. Well, if looks could kill...

"Sherlock..." Jim sang. "You haven't said a word to me, and my feelings are hurt." He pitched his voice up, and placed a hand on his heart for dramatics. "Still not over the fact that I pulled one over on you? Actually, my death plus your life-threatening disease makes two! So that means, _I_ am more clever than _YOU_!"

Neither man flinched at the echo Jim caused in the warehouse. Silence fell, and tensions rose. Either of the them could explode at any moment.

Jim almost regretted not making that a literal possibility. But he had already played that card, and he did not want to bore himself by repetition. He wanted to always come out with something fresh and new every time one turned around. And besides, blowing someone up was too quick. He wanted to kill them...maybe...but not with that kind of mercy. Oh, no. Jim wanted these two to suffer in agonizing torture, both of the physical and mental kind.

Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Whatever you have in mind, I suggest you leave between us. John leaves unharmed."

"Sher-" John tried to protest, but Sherlock gave him a look that told him to keep quiet.

"Now, why would I do that?" Jim did not miss the silent message sent between the two. "I would not want him to miss out on anything." He walked up to John, who did not move away from him. He did stiffen a little as Jim slowly pushed his previously injured shoulder to turn him towards himself. "I've got such exciting things planned for us."

Sherlock's heart started racing. "Why waste your time with John? It's me you want."

John's hurt look ended as soon as it started. Sherlock was clever. But John did not want to be rescued, rushed to safety while Sherlock was left alone with this psychopath. He felt his heart speed up at the thought that Sherlock cared so much about him. But he had known that for a while, right?

"Oh, my dear, you can't trick me with that bullshit." He threw his arm around John, squeezing that shoulder. Sherlock glared daggers for hurting John. He had not even begun yet. "I _know_ John is the farthest thing from a waste of time."

Jim shoved John forward, and walked off for a brief moment. Metal was heard clanging around, letting themknow that he was looking for something. A cellphone light appeared to help him see. Sherlock saw a reflection and paled only slightly. Jim came back with a butcher knife. He had this wild look that scared John and sent Sherlock into a panic. He approached Sherlock like a predator closing in on its prey.

John could not take it any more. He had barely touched Jim's jacket, wanting to keep him from Sherlock, when a bullet grazed his shoulder...his wounded shoulder. He fell to his knees with a cry. The bone was crunching against each other. He got really dizzy, but still tried to stand up, to continue his pursuit.

"John..." Sherlock stood up, but was shoved right back down by Jim.

Jim gave the detective a dark look. His knees were almost touching Sherlock's own. Both pairs of eyes never wavered from each other, even though John was moaning in the background. It was so tempting. But Jim had Sherlock's undivided attention.

"Now I suggest you two behave, or things will start to get ugly."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock and John learned really quick that they were stuck between a rock and a hard place. One move could send another bullet, and Sherlock was not about to watch John get hurt by his recklessness. He needed to think, but he was distracted by that maniacal smile and the shimmering knife coming towards him so slowly. Sherlock would prefer he just stab him and get it over with, but this was Jim Moriarty. He liked to savor every moment.

John grunted on the floor. He was so weak right now, and all because of his damned shoulder. Fear told him to stand down, but that was something John Watson could never do, especially when someone else's life was on the line. He tried to slow his breathing down. Holding his shoulder, he winced as he tried to find the bullet. He had to get that nasty metal out of him to prevent infection.

"Listen, Sherlock." Jim put a hand to his ear. "Isn't that something? Remember your pain? Remember how you felt? And little Johnny Boy was there to play doctor, but now the roles have been switched, and guess what?"

Sherlock did not answer.

"You don't get to be the hero. You get to sit and watch. It's sad, really. John drops everything to help you, but you can't do anything for him. What have you to offer him?"

John's moans echoed in Sherlock's ears. Jim was right. John was always there for him, but what had he done for John? Jeopardize his life time and time again. As soon as John came back from Afghanistan, he drug him back into another war, one the army doctor could not fight like he was trained to do.

And it was all his fault. His friend…punished because of him.

" _Nothing_." Jim whispered. He held Sherlock's shoulder with his free hand as the knife cut his coat, missing the skin. Sherlock could not help but hold his breath.

"Knock it off, you bastard!" John had managed to get up, metal scraps on the floor. Sherlock deduced that most of the shavings from the bullet were out of his wound, which was good.

Sherlock hissed in pain as the knife went into his shoulder. Jim was not careful, so it was a messy cut.

"Oh, John, look what you made me do." He stepped to the side so John can see Sherlock's bleeding shoulder. "Now he will know how it feels to be you. Eh, Sherlock? I guess you can feel. Pain, at least."

Blood was oozing around the knife down Sherlock's coat. He let a scream out as Jim twisted the knife in a slow circle.

"My dear, your coat is filthy." He jerked the knife out, Sherlock gasping. "Let's get this off, shall we?" Jim walked around behind Sherlock then slammed both hands on his shoulders. Squeezing, he pressed down as hard as he could then slid the rough fabric of the coat into the skin before sliding it down and off of Sherlock. "Much better. I can see everything now."

Sherlock's scarf was loosely wrapped around his neck, and Jim thought how beautiful it would be to hang him by it, but thought it would be too easy, too quick. So he just grabbed one end and jerked it, discarding it onto the ground.

"Aren't you a pretty sight?" Jim stepped back, tilting his head as if admiring a work of art. His white button-up was stained a gorgeous crimson that was expanding, making Jim smile. He always did have a gift in the arts, him mummy used to always tell him. And this was his best work yet, even though he was not anywhere near done.

"Go to hell." Sherlock managed to spit out. He was politely acknowledged with a slice to the knee.

"You are being so rude today, Sherlock." Jim tutted. "I'm surprised John hasn't rubbed off on you any. I thought you had a heart…"

"I already told you, I don't have one."

"Keep telling yourself that." Jim went over to John. "Don't think I've forgotten about you. I am sure Sebby is truly sorry for hurting you. That was supposed to have only happened that one time before, but you know what they say! Old habits die hard!"

John's jaw dropped. "What do you-"

"I thought you were smarter than this!" Jim threw his arms out for dramatics. Hearing Sherlock shift in his chair behind him, Jim knew that Sherlock knew what he was talking about. "Leave it to the world's only consulting detective to spell it out for you." Again, Jim threw his arm around John's shoulder, fingering the hole in his shoulder. John felt dizzy, but Jim held him steady. "Go on, then."

Sherlock took a deep breath, looking at the men in front of him. A red light was held on John's temple, daring Sherlock to not answer the question. "Sebastian Moran was a sniper in Afghanistan on the opposing side of her Majesty's service. You had hired him prior to his trip overseas…"

"Yes!" Jim hugged John tighter. "But you can't figure out why I had him shoot this little guy right HERE!" John grimaced as Jim's hand hit his shoulder.

"No."

"I hate doctors. Hate them. Do you know why? Because they think they can make the world a better place by helping people. It makes me sick." He shoved John away from him. John had found his bearings so he did not react much to it. His shoulder was numb with a dull, throbbing pain. He was pissed, so the pain was almost forgotten.

"Doctors never help people. They only make things worse." Without warning, Jim threw a punch to John. He did not give John the chance to process what just happened, as he just kept kicking him in the gut, the leg, the head.

Sherlock could hear a couple of ribs crack. He could hear the cries of hatred from Jim. He did not bother trying to deduce Jim's past encounters with doctors and how many family members he had lost. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that he had to save John. If he could get out of the chair in time, maybe he could shove John out of the way of the bullet. He knew where Sebastian Moran was positioned. And besides, Moran would not shoot while Jim was in the firing zone.

"I…will…make…you…pay!" Jim got up for a moment, leaving John curled in on himself. He turned to Sherlock. He fixed his tie and slicked his gelled hair back. He was tired, his shoulders moving up and down a little quicker than normal. His eyes were wild with fury. "That was worth it."

Yes, it was worth sweating in his suit, it was worth breaking appearance for a few moments. He wanted to hurt Sherlock, to wound him, and from the look on his enemy's face, it was more than worth all of the bank robberies he could muster from his phone.

"How do you like him now, Sherlock?" He looked behind his shoulder down at John, who was breathing deep, eyes closed, fighting the pain. "Such a shame there is nothing you can do to stop me."

"You've had your fun with him, now let him go, or I swear it will be the last thing you do standing on your own feet." Sherlock threatened.

Jim laughed. "Oh, you care so much for him! Now, most people would just break down and cry and beg and say they love them more than anything in this world, but for you, it's a good start. I guess you're right. I have had my fun with dear Johnny boy." He turned around and gave John a wink. John just glared at him.

"John." Sherlock choked.

"Oh, wait! I may have had my fun, but I haven't let him go, yet…"

Jim snapped his fingers, and the world went into a blur. Sherlock caught on, but it was too late. He was not fast enough to stop the bullet, but he was fast enough to throw Jim to the ground, the psychopath laughing like the mad man he was. Punch after punch was thrown, Jim ignoring the fact he was the one being hit. He was enjoying this too much. Sherlock had had his fit, then ran to John.

John lay flat on his back, another wound bleeding out from his side.

"John!" Sherlock fell on his knees.

John was moving his hands frantically, eyes closed in pain. Sherlock found his hands doing the same thing. He maneuvered around John's and applied pressure on the wound. He got a good look at John and tried to avert his gaze from the bruises and cuts on his face. As he pressed down on the wound, John cried, and Sherlock winced because he could feel the cracked ribs move, and it scared him, so he immediately withdrew his hands. He did not want to puncture John's lungs.

"J-John…" Tears were welling up.

"D-don't li-listen…to h-him." John was tired. He was so tired and just wanted to sleep. Then the pain could go away. 

"John, I-I put you in danger constantly. I am more of a threat to you than…"

"Shut-up." John's breaths were short. "You listen…to…me, now." John reached for Sherlock's hands, which he grabbed as if he was the one with his life on the line. 

"John…"

"Thank-you…"

Jim was behind them laughing.

"This is precious!" Jim held his stomach from laughing so much. "You…you really do care! HA!" He disappeared into the darkness, his laughs echoing down the hall.

Sherlock blocked him out. He did care. He always cared.

"John. I am so sorry…I'm so sorry…"

"You have _nothing_ to apologize for." John took in a breath, but his ribs screamed at him for it. "I'm just glad you're back."

"Well, you're going to be, too." Sherlock assured him.

John laughed. "I've been through worse." His life was a constant battle, and it could have ended after Afghanistan, but damn him for wanting John as a flatmate! Damn him for those cases he drug John along in. How could he have been so stupid? 

_Could be dangerous._

Sherlock disagreed. War was hell, but this? This was all his fault.


	8. Chapter 8

Footsteps were heard, and Sherlock could pick out the end of an umbrella, and he broke down in tears. "You're going to be all right, John. I promise."

"'Course I am. He just beat me to a pulp." He coughed again, wincing from his ribs. "It's all over, now."

Sherlock had a hard time believing that. No, it was far from over. Jim Moriarty was going to pay. He was not going to get away with hurting John like this. That man needed to be stopped. Sherlock decided that that was what needed to be done to help keep John safe. But things were going to be different now. He was going to have to protect John, so he would have to do this alone. After all, this war was only supposed to be between the criminal mastermind and himself. John was not going to be used as a pawn anymore. Maybe Mycroft could put him in protective custody with Mrs. Hudson? That would at least delay Moriarty from finding John for a while.

Sherlock begrudgingly stepped back to give the emergency care a chance to get John on a stretcher to load him up in the ambulance he just now started to hear. Everything was going to be fine now. Because he was going to make sure of it.

* * *

John opened his eyes, and shut them quicker than he thought was possible. Damn hospitals. He moaned from the headache it was giving him, and he heard a shift in a chair next to him. Turning his head, he cracked one eye open cautiously to see dark curls and piercing eyes that brightened his day.

Sherlock was in a white t shirt with a bulge on his shoulder from wear Moriarty tore him up. His hair was wildly tamed like always, and his eyes were red and puffy with his face swollen from tears.

"John?" Sherlock slowly closed his hands around John's right, the only one he could reach.

"Sherlock." John smiled. "I'm all right, now." He really was, because he was with _him_.

"John, I..." Sherlock did not want to tell him how things had been. He still needed time to process it all.

"Don't."

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. The last time John had said that, he did not obey, and it caused John so much pain. He was not going to do that again.

"Sherlock, look at me." He held Sherlock's wavering gaze. "I am fine...you are fine...we are going to be fine. Trust me."

"I do, John." Sherlock was rubbing John's hand in smooth circles with his thumbs. "I always have."

John could not hide the blush appearing on his face, and his embarrassment made it even more prevalent. He turned away for a second, and when he looked back, he met Sherlock's smooth lips. Hitting against his chapped ones, shock turned to relief. The cat was out of the bag...well, closet, and John closed his eyes, soaking up the moment.

Sherlock's stomach was making him nauseous, but he was so happy. John was safe and alive and well and they were kissing. Sherlock did not want to waste any more time.

The kiss was deep and meaningful and was broken with the need for air. After they had caught their breath, Sherlock squeezed John's hand.

"John. I never really thanked you for what you did for me when I was ill. Let me..."

"No thanks needed." John leaned in for another kiss, a sweet little kiss that still sent Sherlock into a high he had never experienced.

"John...I..." He still could not say it to his face. Why?

John caught on. "You too, Sherlock."

* * *

It had been a couple of days after John had left the hospital, and 221B never felt more like home before. John's limp was just as bad as ever, due to the stress and fatigue on his mind and body. Sherlock never let him out of his sight. Just like John had done for him.

"Sherlock, I'm quite capable of going to the kitchen to make some tea."

"No, you're still recovering. And if you would like for me to go into detail about what all has transpired, I will gladly inform you."

John's breath hitched when he turned around to see Sherlock towering over him. He had this look of desire in his eyes that John could not resist anymore. Kissing had become a regular part of their routine, since there were no cases to be solved. Lestrade promised to let them know if there were any new developments as to where Moriarty disappeared to this time. Until then, Sherlock's primary focus was taking care of John, keeping his promise.

"You're thinking."

Sherlock did not even notice breaking the kiss. His mind palace just went on auto every time he and John kissed. He could not control himself.

"Oh...sorry, it does that sometimes." Sherlock had this blank look on his face, a rare sight for John that he enjoyed way too much.

* * *

"What do you _mean you passed out_?" Jim was furious. John Watson was supposed to be dead. And Seb had left him hanging. This has never happened to him before. Why now? Why, when he was so close to destroying Sherlock, that his stupid sniper could not make a simple shot?

" _I...don't know. I just heard this buzz and felt a slight pressure on my neck, then...nothing. I woke up and found you had called._ "

"Do you know how _embarrassing_ that was for me? To just stand there like an _idiot_ waiting for _you_ to follow one...simple...instruction..."

" _I'm sorry, sir._ "

"How hard is it, really? You just _point_ and pull the trigger. I do it all the time with no trouble. _Trust_ me, I can show you."

" _I-_ "

"I hired you because you were deemed the _best_ in the business."

" _Sir, pl-_ "

Jim hung up. Sebastian Moran had failed him. Everyone is so unreliable these days. Who cares if it was Sherlock's older brother's goons just looking after them. There was no excuse!

"If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself." He took out his newest suit from his closet, popping his gum irritatingly. "You boys enjoy your time together...cause I'm in charge of your honeymoon. And we're going to have some _fun_."

He called his car to come around front in an hour. That would give him enough time to get ready. After all, he always had to look his best when meeting his arch nemesis.

"I'm going to tear you apart, Sherlock Holmes."

He really did enjoy beating John to a pulp. The cries from him and Sherlock was music to his ears. He loved hurting people. It was what he was best at. The incident with Seb was just a minor setback. This would give him more time to mess with John before killing him. He figured it would be best to leave Sherlock alive. Seeing John die for real would send him over the edge. Maybe he will jump off a building again? Jim hoped he would not, since he already did that once. Maybe something slower and more dramatic like slitting his wrists? Either way, Jim wanted a front row seat viewing of his death. Murder was so much fun to do, but suicide was delicious. There was more underlying meat. Seeing all of the pain over the course of time finally wearing someone down enough to murder themselves. And since _he_ was the one that started it all, he would have the honor of causing said suicide.

The plan was full proof.

The car arrived on time, much to Jim's approval.

"At least _someone_ does their job right." Time to pay them another visit. He did not like having all of their meetings so spaced out. Sherlock and John were his top priority, but for a while, he had to focus more attention on other things that were more pressing at the time. Now, however, they were all his. They were his sole purpose right now. And he was not going to leave them alone until he was completely finished with them this time.

No more games.


	9. Chapter 9

"John?"

"I don't need anything, thanks though." John was getting a little annoyed by hovering Sherlock. Sure, he had done the same, but they had thought Sherlock was suffering from a life-threatening illness. His condition was like a paper cut compared to a beheading.

Sherlock smiled. "That's not what I meant."

John looked over, confused. He was not the best at interpreting which time Sherlock said his name meant what. It was not his profession. "Sorry."

"No, don't apologize." Sherlock was in deep thought. "I've been thinking."

"About what?" No answer. "What's wrong, Sherlock? You can tell me." John had a hopeful look on his face, giving Sherlock permission to tell him.

Sherlock looked hopeful, too.

Two gentle knocks alerted them to tea time with Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello boys! I brought some tea!" She set the tray down in front of them.

"Thank-you, Mrs. Hudson." John graciously accepted a cup. He noticed Sherlock deflate.

"Feeling better today? Your poor face still looks like a grape."

"I assure you, the bruises are just healing, slowly but surely." John tried not to talk about it around Sherlock. It scared him because he blamed himself for not being there to prevent those injuries. Even though he caught Sherlock staring at them all the time, as if the genius could just will them away with his mind.

"And Sherlock, have you changed your bandage today?"

"John made me do it 3 hours and 12 minutes ago."

Mrs. Hudson and John shared a look. Sherlock never bothered with such trivial things like personal care and the solar system.

"That's good, then. You two have the afternoon to rest, or are you bored, dear?"

"I've been occupying myself with a manner of things." Sherlock managed to sneak in an experiment that he hid quite well. Hopefully, the smell would not come up for at least a day or two.

"Yes, that dreadful man that hurt my boys." John smiled at that. Even Sherlock felt pride in being a part of Mrs. Hudson's friends. "I'm telling you, I'm perfectly fine staying here with you. I don't like this protective custody. It's boring."

Sherlock laughed a little. "I can assure you it's for your safety. You're lucky Mycroft agreed to allow you to come here for tea every other afternoon."

"Well, it's just not the same anymore. That's why I'm counting on you boys to take care of all of this mess so we can get back to our lives again."

Lives. Sherlock wondered what that would entitle. If John would not let him go off on his own on cases, which Sherlock knows he will fight tooth and nail to come along, he might just have to give it all up. John's safety came before his made-up career. He would give up anything to have John and keep him safe. 

After saying their goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson, John looked back to their conversation.

"Moriarty is not done with us, you know." John pointed out.

Sherlock's blood boiled. "No, we have to stop him before he makes his next move."


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock went to take out the trash, and spun around to find Jim Moriarty staring at him in the face.

"Hello, dearie...how's John doing?"

Sherlock's eyes darted around.

"Save it, I got rid of my dog." He pulled out a gun. "It's just you, me, and John." He whistled, moving the gun towards the flat.

Sherlock had no choice but to lead the way back inside. His mind was whirling with what to do, because John was right there by the door in his chair, exposed. He prayed Mycroft was still on the job.

"Sherlock? Sher-" John gripped his seat tighter as he saw Moriarty appear from behind Sherlock with a gun pointed to him.

"How are you feeling, John? I do apologize for causing such a scene. I have got to work on my temper."

John fumed. "I've had worse in primary school."

Sherlock gave him a look to not make this worse.

Jim laughed, and clicked the gun's safety back on. "You are a spit-fire...I like you...and I know Sherlock does, too." He put it away on his person, and pulled out a knife instead. He circled Sherlock. "I really don't appreciate you erasing my artwork. I'm going to have to start all over. That pretty little jacket. It's too perfect for someone like you. Let me readjust a few things. Here." Jim cut off a button. Sherlock remained frozen in place. "Here." Another button fell to the ground. " _Here_." Jim was about to cut open Sherlock's shoulder again when a bullet knocked the knife out of his hand.

"That's enough." John kept his gun positioned at Jim.

Jim laughed. "Well, it's about time you showed up! What were you doing in that little chair? Praying for Sherlock to come and sweep you off your feet so you can ride off into the sunset?"

"You were stupid enough to come into our home alone with no backup."

Jim faked a girlish "ugh" sound. "That was not a very nice thing to say to a mad genius. I did come with come back-up, though. Just not the usual type." He pulled out a needle, and lunged for Sherlock, but was stopped by another bullet, coming from the hallway.

"John?"

"Sherlock?" John grunted as he stood up and pulled Sherlock away from the writhing man on the floor. "You're all right. We're ok. I promise."

"The same...drug..." Sherlock stared at the needle dripping onto the floor.

"I know, I know. But that doesn't matter. Look at me. You're ok." John looked at the police swarming around them.

Mycroft walked in. "Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise. I come to visit for tea, and I catch the most wanted criminal instead."

"Typical of big brother having to come and clean up your messes." Jim spat. "I'll be back...I'll always come back." He screamed at Sherlock as he was dragged away.

"Mycroft, as always, your timing is just... _awful_." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John softly elbowed him. "What he means to say is, thank-you for saving our lives...again."

"Just doing my job..." He frowned. "Where's the tea?"

* * *

That night, Sherlock and John sat in companionable silence on the couch watching the telly. 

"We're so domestic right now..." Sherlock pointed out, sipping his tea.

"It's nice, isn't it?" John smiled.

Sherlock looked down at him, and smiled back. "Yes, it is..." He pulled John into a hug, and kissed him on the head.


End file.
